Welcome to my latest Short Story
It goes out to all the misunderstood Angels out there.
People have the wrong idea about me. I’m not the Devil they think I am.
I sit rejected among God’s fallible beings as the Angel who sinned once. My existence in banishment has been spent mostly among my creator’s favorite creation; the mortals he crafted in his image. I walk among them as an observer. My name is Lucifer. I live in Hell.
I’m not the devil you think I am. Human history and prehistory tells the story of a demon that tried to overthrow heaven and now sits eternally condemned in his fiery, subterranean prison, lording over the other lost souls, plotting his vengeance. I have come to accept that in order for history to be written, it has to come with the bias of the human writing his-story. Human stories always have winners and losers. Stories are rarely told by the loser.
The image of me has never been right. I can almost take pride, being the only of my former kind capable of pride, in the prominence this image has played in human culture. I would almost like to thank the human that came up with these horns and crimson hide, but I think it’s the kind of thing that grew over time and can be credited to no fearful mortal in particular. The concept of my being and those of my former kind is something difficult for a mortal to grasp.
My race isn’t bound to a body in the physical sense. When an angel makes its presence known to a mortal consciousness, the appearance is subjective to the eyes that behold it. Human accounts have described divine beauty, wings, robes, and even a simple glowing light in place of a normal figure. I have never appeared before a human in my natural form, so I truly can’t dispute the possibility that the eyes that were to behold me wouldn’t see the hooves and horns of my previous depictions. I’m not even certain if I’m capable of manufacturing such a physical form. Angels are capable of taking an earth bound form close to that of humans; tangible and, for all mortal purposes, undetectable. We appear as flesh, but without a beating heart. The forms we take are most often representative of our nature in some way. It is in this form that genders are more apparent. Our appearance as man or woman is not determined by reproductive organs, as we don’t reproduce, but by the dominant elements of our individual personalities. Some angels are far more masculine or feminine, but some exhibit aspects of both. Depending on the circumstances, these angels can appear as either a man or a woman, again determined by the human beholding them.
Observing has become the main pastime of our kind in place of philosophy and conveying the divine word. You have been effectively left to your own devices for the time being and thus we have been left to ours. We walk among you at all times. We’re at your side when you have those thoughts that let you do bad things. We’re there when babies are born and when old men die alone.
When the sun sets angels gather to discuss this experiment called humanity. I ponder alone. I am not to be acknowledged by my own kind. I can no longer go home.
* * *
Heaven is a subjective thing.
It is certainly a different experience for the human soul today than the realm in which I once dwelled. For humans it is life without finality, which I suppose must be paradise. We never regarded it as paradise or as a reward. It was home, a home never taken for granted. For angels, Heaven is a boundless place of light, warmth, and thought. We existed for an eternity as devout disciples of that peace and unity that our home represented.
Hell is the opposing incarnation of Heaven. It is the absence of Heaven. It is the absence of life. The absence of sensual stimulus and free will, in essence the ultimate eternal punishment, is to exist without the fundamental stimulus of life. It is not the subterranean pit of fire and brimstone that many envision, though in many ways it may as well be. Pain and torture can almost be a comfort when they’re all you have and all you feel. An ending without end is the ultimate torture for a sentient a mind. Purgatory is the place where human souls relive their injustices and their sins, where they feel pain and helplessness. Purgatory is the torture, Hell is the ending; the torture of nothingness. I am the keeper of Hell. I oversee the souls that enter nothingness.
Sometimes it is my suspicion that Hell wasn’t the creation of my maker. I think it is possible that it is the byproduct to his creation of Heaven. All light creates a shadow, every cause has an effect, for every heaven there’s a hell on the other side of the wall. Like action and reaction, Hell is the result of a balance that he created and is at once bound to. I don’t blame him for this place.
Not once have I ever endeavored to swindle or tempt someone into surrendering me an eternal soul. Endless tales of human religion and mythology depict me tempting human weakness with promises that entail a tantalizing offer that exploits their human frailties in exchange for the souls I seek to obtain. I simply don’t have the ability to alter reality in the way these legends describe. Furthermore, I don’t benefit from luring humans into my domain. They aren’t mine when they enter, they simply exist where I am bound.
My existence consists of nothingness, no gains or endeavors, and no life’s work. My only pastime is periodically walking among humans on Earth as an observer, watching them revel in ignorance of the beauty of creation around them, the beauty that they belong to that belongs to them. Because of my one dissention, my act of individuality, I’m doomed never to return home, never to belong to anything.
“I can understand why you’re frustrated.”
Michael and I meet occasionally in anonymous places where people tend not to notice one another; in coffee shops and on park benches. I suspect he’s always been sympathetic. We once stood together, when we were Archangels.
“I’m not frustrated, Michael. Acceptance came to me a long time ago. I just wish it could be a little different.” We’re looking out the window of the diner at a movie theatre across the street. Under the marquis are advertisements for coming attractions. The upcoming movies include ‘Demon-Killer’; the poster illustrates a valiant warrior in battle with a typically demonic beast. The demon is huge and beastly, with crimson red skin, large bovine horns protruding from his head, and hoofed feet. He smiles maniacally, standing in a pit of fire. “I don’t mind that they hate me. I’m used to being an outsider, but that depiction always irks me. It gets to me somehow.”
“I guess that’s what you get for being the only angel capable of pride.”
“It’s not something I’m proud of. And don’t forget, I’m not an angel anymore, Michael.”
“You may not dwell in Heaven, but that does not change what you are.”
“That’s nice of you to say.”
“While we’re on the subject, what else would you change?” Michael is always trying to get me to admit I was wrong to rebel against our maker. I suspect he thinks it would be the first step to some possible form of penance and forgiveness. I know better. Forgiveness is reserved for the humans.
“I can see what you’re doing. And I’m not going to repent.” Michael smiles innocently.
“There must be something.”
“Aside from the image of red skin, horns, and hoofs, I would like to see him extend to us the freedoms he gives to his humans.”
“You mean free will.”
“Yes, but more than just that; imagination, invention, extrapolation, and even deception.”
“You think it is a gift to lie?”
“Don’t be short-sighted. A lie is more than a sin, more than a hurtful, self-serving device. Deception is at the root of storytelling, metaphor and poetry. Deception is a form of invention, and creation; that has allowed their race to evolve, and allowed them to cultivate as individuals. The ability to lie is at the very center of free will.”
“Invention has been responsible for as much harm as it has for good.”
“That may be true, but take away the byproducts, take away currency, slavery, and pollution, and invention has meant philosophy and literature. It has let them, for better or worse, discover their individuality. It has given their lives meaning. I think we deserve that.”
“You don’t think our lives have meaning?”
“I don’t think we were given the chance to find our individuality, our own meaning.”
“I’d say you did.”
“And look what it got me.”
We have variations of this discussion every time we meet. Every time, Michael lets me vent and postulate on the fallacies of creation. He nods warmly and sympathetically, careful to comprehend without encouraging my angelic blasphemy. He has an interesting way of debating without disagreeing. I know he humors me purely for my benefit, that he is incapable and unwilling to see our creator’s flaws. I know this, though I tend to forget amidst my ranting. Whether his counterpoint is genuine or not, I treasure our meetings. Sitting with him is the closest I can get to going home.
“You know, there’s something else I’d change.”
“What’s that?”
“I haven’t heard one of my own kind say my name since I was expelled from Heaven.”
“I’m sorry, you know I can’t…”
“I don’t blame you. It’s not that bad being on my own. I don’t really mind my solitary existence, but hearing my name spoken by the voices that once comforted me would make my banishment far more tolerable.”
“I can understand that. I can’t imagine losing those things that welcome me home.”
“You’re not capable of imagination, Michael.”
“It’s not a sin to use a human colloquialism.”
“Perhaps it should be.”
We pretend to sip our coffees; angels are incapable of imbibing most human food. Over an hour passes and our cold mugs still sit completely full. The busy waitresses are usually only too happy to ignore us. Sometimes I use tricks like soaking some coffee into napkins or switching mugs with a person whom has just left. Michael never does so, believing it to be deceitful. We look like two normal men. My appearance is plain. I’m shorter than many and quite thin. I would not be considered handsome by human standards. Michael is, as always, splendorous and regal. He’s tall and has waving blonde hair, a soft complexion, and deep fair eyes. His clothing is clean and fits well against his strong torso. Mine are plain looking, hanging oversized off my body. I repeatedly see women that pass by look at him with a lustful feminine longing. The waitress giggles when he talks to her.
“It has always bothered me that angels have no endeavor.”
“We guard and oversee Heaven. We act as messengers.”
“Michael, I am the only being to ever oppose Heaven. I was defeated eons ago. Guarding is at best uneventful. Delivering his message is hardly an endeavor. There is no chance of failure in delivering a message to a prophetic human. There is nowhere they can hide from us, we can hear what they’re thinking, carrying a message to one of them is a matter of a thought and a few words. An errand is not an endeavor. Everyday they get to feel the thrill of achievement in the face of possible failure. I’ve felt that thrill but once. Humans have engaging challenges before them every day. They have the freedom to succeed or to fail. They plan and study and strategize. We ponder and observe. I just wish we had some challenge before us from time to time.”
Michael sits back in his chair, clearly intrigued by my statement. We stare at each other in silence as I wait for his response.
“I think I have an idea.” A smile rises on his face, coming as close as I believe he is able devious.
“Would you be interested in a wager?”
* * *
How could these words have come from his mouth? How could I have forgotten this, the sparkle of the notion of a challenge?
It certainly cannot be advisable for him to offer me a wager, to offer me anything really, but our maker has always afforded Michael certain exceptions. I have never bothered to ask why he is allowed to meet with me. As we set out upon our expedition I am filled and aroused by a forgotten notion of journey and a destination unknown.
Michael leads me to a stately old building in an area filled with historical landmark-type structures. I much prefer modern architecture, it amuses me how much it contradicts the natural environment. Inside the building are many offices and rooms where people are toiling away furiously on tasks that I can’t discern. Some appear to be assembling correspondence, licking envelopes and the like, while others talk on their telephones. It must be so dissatisfying to labor without an immediate product.
“What are these people doing?”
“Their employer is preparing for an election. He is this city’s incumbent mayor.”
For a moment I consider the possibility that Michael is kidding with me. Though he is many things, a humorist he is not. What possible role could I play in human democracy? In our invisible forms we walk through the rooms toward an office in the back. I stop every few steps and catch a glimpse of the people ignoring their own desires to work for someone else’s. I look into their eyes to see if it is clear what is driving them; are they crusading for the beliefs of their leader or merely collecting sustenance?
In the back room the activity subsides, we enter to see a man standing in front of his reflection in the window adjusting his tie. He looks into the eyes of his reflection with narcissistic lust. He is clearly the employer in this office. He has the swagger of a salesman, a temporary leader.
“This man’s name is Del Iverus. Del is going to die in less than three months. On the path his life is currently taking he will have no place in Heaven. I challenge you to help him willingly change his path in the three months before his life is over. I wager that in three months you can’t convince him to change his fate. I challenge you to save this man’s soul from Hell.”
“And if I succeed?”
“I’ll say your name.”
* * *
Stay tuned for Part Two.
Thanks for reading, you little devil.
Patrick
